


Prelude in C sharp-minor, Op. 3 No. 2

by darklips_paleface



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Neglect, Physical Abuse, Stabbing, This is not Happy, Trigger warning: child abuse, at all, like real bad, please don’t read this if you’re even a little sensitive to that, sorry I’m tagging it twice because that’s literally all this fic is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 17:12:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17871386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darklips_paleface/pseuds/darklips_paleface
Summary: Sundays will always lead to Mondays, the sun always forced to set.(this is dark and not fun or pleasant. its just a very short backstory fic i needed to get off my chest.)





	Prelude in C sharp-minor, Op. 3 No. 2

**Author's Note:**

> title is a song composed by Rachmaninoff that i suggest you pair this fic with. words can never describe the confusion and horror of abuse coming from your should-be protector, so classical pieces like this one i find often speak to that well of emotion the best.

     Usually it happens when he’s feeling his best. Usually it’s the day after  **he’s** said something, done something so spectacular in Ed’s eyes that he’s decided to forgive  **him** for all of it. Somehow, even after years of it, Ed is never expecting the attack. It makes him feel like an idiot. 

      That may be the worst part of it all, that when he looks himself over in the mirror, more prominent than the bruises, more present than the scars, Ed can see the word “FOOLISH” painted in red welts along his back. Looks down and finds “WEAK” on his right shoulder in blacks and blues and yellows, almost gone but soon to return. Finds “COWARD” in the hollows of of his rib cage, sinking and sinking, days-weeks-months-years deep. Try as he might to hide from it Edward Nashton cannot escape the “WORTHLESS” that he was born with scrawled along his forehead, pity his eyes were only able to see it when  **he** began pointing it out to Ed. 

      Yesterday, they had gone fishing. Ed was worried when he woke up, on the day they’d planned the outing, feeling sick; unsure if he was going to vomit due to actual nausea or the sickening bout of nerves that overcame him with the realization he would have to tell  **him** he was unwell and thus, was ruining the day the pair had planned. Father never took well to illness, treated it as something for the weak that could be overcome if one simply tried hard enough. Ed remembers clearly the unfortunate day he'd accidentally thrown up on Father's good couch. The memory still stings. It was the ultimate shock, then, when  **he** reacted with sympathy. 

      “Sick, huh? Oh that’s no good. Here; have a seat on the couch and I’ll cook you some eggs. Movies all day it is!”  **He** was happy and light and even though Ed knew he’d be puking them up momentarily, he ate every last bit of scrambled eggs with a grin on his face. 

      Later, after a Hitchcock marathon to satiate both of their love for the macabre, Ed started to feel a little better. This was followed by a lunch of Fathers signature PBB&J’s (peanut butter, butter, and jelly- an acquired taste to be sure). Once that stayed down  **he** determined Ed fit for a day of fishing and swimming at the lake by their house, and knowing now that today was to be a rare good day, Ed bounded excitedly through the house changing into swim trunks and gather his fishing rod. 

      They swam and laughed and sun bathed and fished and it was a  _ good  _ day. Ed smiled so hard his mouth ached, and as he lay down in that night he made up his mind:

_ I forgive him. He has hurt me but he was unhappy then. He is happy now. He loves me. He makes me eggs and takes me to the lake, he makes funny faces that make me laugh and tucked me in before bed. He is a good man who is trying his best, and I will forgive him and we will be okay.  _

     When he was lying at the foot of the stone stairs the next day, it would be the memory of this whispered promise to himself that would hurt the most. 

      It was a Monday. Weekends, like most good things in life, always had to end. Ed bounded in from school that day with good news, hopefully it would keep the happiness of yesterday in Father's heart. He had won the puzzle contest at school, and was awarded a riddle book he’d already begun memorizing in his excitement. Father was in the kitchen, when Ed came to him. He felt lucky he hadn’t caught  **him** with a knife or other such weapon in  **his** hand, but then again, Father wasn’t stupid like Ed. Father would never kill Ed, no,  **he** was much smarter and knew that the pain of death would never surpass the pain of a life of torture. So when  **his** rage overcame  **him** at determining  **his** son to be a cheater,  **he** simply hauled Ed to the steep stone staircase that led to the basement and tossed him down. Ed would marvel at Fathers strength in tossing him down as if he weighed no more than a loaf of bread, but he knew the fault- as always- lie in himself for being so scrawny and unattractive. 

      He didn’t die. Incredibly, he was burdened with life. He was concussed, probably, but that might've proven to be a small blessing in that his memory of the event would be hazy to non-extant for years to come. He also determined, after a perfunctory inspection of his person, that no bones were broken. He was bruised, bloodied, and broken beyond repair, but he was in no need of serious medical attention. How lucky was Ed, that Father was a doctor and knew just the best ways to make him hurt without costing any trips to the ER. 

      Years would pass and Ed would let them- this would remain the worst of  **his** attacks. In fact, the day Ed would take a kitchen knife to Father would be a rather small one. A few mean words, after a few days of refusing food, and a firmly grasped shoulder and that was it. Father was dead over practically nothing at all. Ed tells himself it  _ was  _ that, the roughness small as it was, that set him off. Tells himself it wasn’t a premeditated thing that he’d been harboring since the day he realized, at sixteen years, old that in two years he’d be able to slip away to college with a simple name change and leave Father behind him forever. Tells himself that that realization wasn’t immediately followed by the revelation that he was the only blood relation or human being alive who was supposed to give a damn what happened to Father. And if he’d only stabbed  **him** once, he’s sure he’d live the rest of his life convinced that it was just that- a snap decision. 

      Luckily, though, after stabbing Father 23 times, Ed realized he’s not an idiot after all. And he won’t pretend to be one anymore. The plan was a good one, and he’d get away with it leaving only one clue.

      A new identity begging to be commented on, looked into, solved like a puzzle:

E. Nygma

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sure it’s obvious but this comes from an incredibly personal place, please respect that if you chose to comment.


End file.
